


Sick Days

by faryn_rose



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Minor Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faryn_rose/pseuds/faryn_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten may be slightly overprotective when it comes to you getting sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Days

You already assured Ten before he left for practice, that you’d be completely fine without him. It’s only for a day and it’s only a simple cold that has seized your body and currently reigns control over your sinuses. It may be accompanied by some sneezing, a throat that feels like it’s been filled to the brim with needles, and a godawful migraine that wreaks havoc against your skull, but you didn’t necessarily tell him all of that. 

It’s because he doesn’t necessarily need to know, not when he is so worried already at the simple thought of leaving you home to fend for yourself alone. 

When the clock strikes a time that officially deems him late, he has to be nearly pushed through the door to be forced to leave, accompanied by you insisting him to forget you, and simply get to practice on time. He seems to sway in his resolve when his words or worry still, and eventually relents, pressing a half-hearted kiss against your temple in parting. His worried eyes flit over your face, pouting lips telling you once again that if you want him to stay with you, he will. 

But a burden is the last thing you want to be, especially to his busy schedule, so you hurriedly send him out the door and on his way with a weak shove of your palm. A sneeze seizes your frame just as he steps over the doorstep and you have to swiftly slam the door shut before he can barge immediately back in again to see if you are alright. 

You yell the final words of, “ _i’ll be fine_!” through the wood of the entrance before you find yourself collapsing on the couch with a long, drawn sigh settling in the air. As much as you love him, he is sometimes more stressful that your compromised health. 

But you  _are_  fine, you weren’t lying to him about that. Apart from your simple sniffling and occasional sneezing accompanying you during your time spent lounging on the sofa and watching television, you are totally fine.

That’s true for all but an hour or two, before the dull ache in your head transforms into one that definitely involves hammers pounding against your cranium. On top of that, one touch of your hand to the skin of your forehead samples to you what the heat of hell is like.

You stumble to the kitchen in a frantic search for painkillers when your breaths turn ragged and vision blends and blurs into a haze of light. You manage to open the correct cabinet and the correct pills, barely swallowing them past your tongue when your cellphone is ringing insistently. You unlock and answer it with difficulty. 

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” the familiar voice crackles. “I just wanted to see if you were doing okay.”

You sigh. “I’m fine, Ten. I told you- oh god,”  you groan at the sudden pain surging through your forehead. You realize that you’ve been standing for entirely too long and completely regret it now that you can feel your bones aching. But those thoughts are falling away as quickly as the pain came when the world suddenly tilts in your vision. 

“Y/n? Are you alright?” His suspicious, worried voice sounds through the speakers and your lips move to mumble that you are fine, that it’s just another headache, before your grasp on the glass of water loosens suddenly, absently and the cup falls to the floor, splintering into glass shards upon contact. 

He is yelling now and, dammit, you didn’t want to make him worry, but suddenly, your legs are giving way and you land on the ground roughly, darkness twisting and washing over your hazy sight.

When you wake, the cool dampth of a towel on your forehead is the first thing you feel. It seeps into the burning warmth of your head, and coaxes a sigh from your lips at the momentary relief it grants. Then, you see his face, troubled and worried, brightening up only when your eyes flutter open completely. 

“Oh thank goodness. Are you alright?” His hand clutches your fingers desperately as you groan at the harsh light flooding your vision. “I found you on the floor and  _god_  I was so worried-”

You try to sit up slowly, but his arm firmly holds your waist down. “No, you need to rest.” His voice hardens into a firm tone, hand coming up to card through his hair in frustration before his eyes are determinedly fixing on yours. 

“Y/n, you have to let me take care of you,” he speaks with furrowing eyebrows. “If something like this happens again, I don’t know if you or I can handle it.”

You huff. “But it’s only a fever, I shouldn’t have gotten up anyw-”

“No buts,” he frowns. “I will stay home with you for however long it takes and make you as much chicken soup as you need and give you your medicine and make  _sure you rest_.” He accentuates the last three words with a space between them.

And you know you can’t argue with him when his cute personality fades to have this determination staring back at you under those dark fringes, especially when it comes to you or your health.

“Okay,” you manage out weakly, allowing some satisfaction to settle in his features, because you are proud and do not relent so easily. He allows a sweet smile across his lips, one that you’ve missed since his constant worrying began, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Good. Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you need to rest,” he says so while crawling onto the bed, hands and legs working to slide up exactly next to your frame. He nudge his body between the sheets and your own, head settling comfortably on the pillow in front of your disbelieving eyes and arm wrapping tightly around your waist.

“What are you doing?”

His grip on your waist tightens slightly, and he doesn’t open his eyes while he nuzzles the crook of your neck, as if realizing only now that he’s missed you while away. 

“Helping you sleep.”

You figure it’s some excuse to cuddle and attempt to budge in the confines of his grip, but it remains strong, and you don’t miss the sleepy curl of his lips into a smile.

“You might catch whatever I have and get sick!”

He only hums in response, mumbling the words of  _sleep tight_  lost against the warmth of your skin. And all protests die on your tongue when his breathing evens out, knowing he must be so tired from practice but has still insisted on coming home to take care of you.

You choose instead to relish in the warmth bleeding from his chest that is pressed securely to yours and fall asleep with the thoughts of how lucky you are on your mind. 

 


End file.
